Read Online Wilma Tenderfoot and the Case of the Frozen Hearts by Emma Kennedy - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Emma Kennedy
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floors. Being a curious and determined little girl, Wilma, intrigued by the oversized trunk, had felt compelled to open it and have a good peek. âItâs not snooping,â she explained to Pickle, who was sitting watching her. âItâs investigating, which is a different thing entirely.â Given that everything at Howling Hall was drab and gray, Wilma was astonished to find a mass of dazzling and sparkling costumes. There was also a poster for a circus glued into the lid. She made a mental note to think about it again when she was a proper detective.
But, remembering the trunk at that moment, Wilma suddenly knew how she was going to get to the Museum . . .
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The National Museum of Cooper had won the Most Brilliant Building on the Island Award every year since it was built. As Theodore and Inspector Lemone freewheeled down the Avenue of the Cooperans the grand entrance plaza stretched out in front of them. Larger than a football field, it was surrounded by sugarcane trees that visitors to the museum came in the hundreds to lick. Younglings lined up to chew the sweetest trees, and Sugarcane-Swizzle vendors stood on every corner cutting down the sticky twigs and leaves and pulping them into delicious bubbly drinks. Beyond the plaza was the Museum, a six-tiered pyramid that held all the treasures of Cooper. Inspector Lemone couldnât have been more relieved as they came to a stop. âIâm exhausted, Goodman!â he said, getting off the tandem and leaning against the wall of the Museum with one hand.
âIt was downhill all the way, Inspector,â said Theodore, dismounting neatly. âThe sensation you are experiencing is not one of exhaustion but the burst of exhilaration that riding at speed can provide. But donât worryâthey are easily confused.â
Inspector Lemone wiped away the sweat on his forehead for the second time that day and stared afterTheodore P. Goodman as he marched toward the Museum entrance. âNo,â he muttered to himself. âBelieve me. Iâm exhausted.â
There will always be individuals who are naturally athletic. You know the sort: They glide rather than galumph, they float rather than flop, and they can throw things overhand without looking really, really terrible. Inspector Lemone was not one such individual and neither was Wilma, who, having borrowed a pair of skates from Mrs. Waldockâs mysterious trunk, had managed on her journey to the National Museum to knock over three mailboxes, a trash can, and a five-year-old named Susan. It was like watching a baby deer on a pogo stick. Out of breath and panting, Wilma crashed to a stop in front of the grand plaza with Pickle, his skinny frame bouncing along, ears flapping in the wind, at her heels.
The place was packed. The theft of the Katzin Stone had been in the after-lunch papers, and citizens had come from all over the island to stare at the empty display case and say things like âItâs an awful shameâ and âHow terrible,â because everyone, no matter how much they deny it, loves a notorious case of thievery. âSorry!â said Wilma as she skated into a family from That Place Over There, a small village on the west of the Farside. âExcuse me!â she said as she glided over the toe of a woman from That Place Under There, a village to the south. All countries have someone whose job it is to give everywhere its proper name. In Great Britain, for example, the task of naming places first fell to a man named Gregor Thellred. He was very good at what he did and came up with great place names like Plymouth and Ipswich. Sadly for Cooper, their place namer was a scruffy and disinterested lad named Brian, whose lack of imagination was breathtaking, and as a result there are villages on Cooper called terrible things like Bleeuurgh, Little Meaning, and Isit-nearlylunchyet.
Looking about frantically, Wilma couldnât see the detective anywhere, but as
But, remembering the trunk at that moment, Wilma suddenly knew how she was going to get to the Museum . . .
Â
The National Museum of Cooper had won the Most Brilliant Building on the Island Award every year since it was built. As Theodore and Inspector Lemone freewheeled down the Avenue of the Cooperans the grand entrance plaza stretched out in front of them. Larger than a football field, it was surrounded by sugarcane trees that visitors to the museum came in the hundreds to lick. Younglings lined up to chew the sweetest trees, and Sugarcane-Swizzle vendors stood on every corner cutting down the sticky twigs and leaves and pulping them into delicious bubbly drinks. Beyond the plaza was the Museum, a six-tiered pyramid that held all the treasures of Cooper. Inspector Lemone couldnât have been more relieved as they came to a stop. âIâm exhausted, Goodman!â he said, getting off the tandem and leaning against the wall of the Museum with one hand.
âIt was downhill all the way, Inspector,â said Theodore, dismounting neatly. âThe sensation you are experiencing is not one of exhaustion but the burst of exhilaration that riding at speed can provide. But donât worryâthey are easily confused.â
Inspector Lemone wiped away the sweat on his forehead for the second time that day and stared afterTheodore P. Goodman as he marched toward the Museum entrance. âNo,â he muttered to himself. âBelieve me. Iâm exhausted.â
There will always be individuals who are naturally athletic. You know the sort: They glide rather than galumph, they float rather than flop, and they can throw things overhand without looking really, really terrible. Inspector Lemone was not one such individual and neither was Wilma, who, having borrowed a pair of skates from Mrs. Waldockâs mysterious trunk, had managed on her journey to the National Museum to knock over three mailboxes, a trash can, and a five-year-old named Susan. It was like watching a baby deer on a pogo stick. Out of breath and panting, Wilma crashed to a stop in front of the grand plaza with Pickle, his skinny frame bouncing along, ears flapping in the wind, at her heels.
The place was packed. The theft of the Katzin Stone had been in the after-lunch papers, and citizens had come from all over the island to stare at the empty display case and say things like âItâs an awful shameâ and âHow terrible,â because everyone, no matter how much they deny it, loves a notorious case of thievery. âSorry!â said Wilma as she skated into a family from That Place Over There, a small village on the west of the Farside. âExcuse me!â she said as she glided over the toe of a woman from That Place Under There, a village to the south. All countries have someone whose job it is to give everywhere its proper name. In Great Britain, for example, the task of naming places first fell to a man named Gregor Thellred. He was very good at what he did and came up with great place names like Plymouth and Ipswich. Sadly for Cooper, their place namer was a scruffy and disinterested lad named Brian, whose lack of imagination was breathtaking, and as a result there are villages on Cooper called terrible things like Bleeuurgh, Little Meaning, and Isit-nearlylunchyet.
Looking about frantically, Wilma couldnât see the detective anywhere, but as